Choose: Your Mother or Me

Choose: Your Mum or Me

The phone rang at half past ten, just as Catherine was lying in bed with a book. Edward sat in the next room, his favourite armchair pulled up close to his laptop, from which the muted voice of a BBC newsreader floated out.

It was a number she didnt recognise, but the code was from their hometown of Ambleford.

Hello, said Catherine, feeling an uneasy tightness in her chest.

Its Mrs Audrey Green, your neighbour from across the road. I expect you dont know me, love. Im sorry to call so late Theres a bit of trouble Your mum, Jean, she had a fall this morning. I popped in this evening and she was still on the floor, barely able to speak, one side of her face

Catherine was already climbing out of bed, searching for her slippers with her toes.

Is she at hospital?

They took her about an hour ago. Ambulance said it looked like a stroke. I found your number in her mobile, took me a while

Thank you, Mrs Green. Thank you so much.

She stood there, phone in hand, for a few seconds, just breathing, then went to find Edward.

He was lounging in his Savile Row dressing gown, a glass of sparkling water on the side table. Fifty-six, well-groomed, flecks of grey at the temples, a successful man in his London flat.

Ed, Mums not well. Shes had a stroke. Theyve taken her to Ambleford hospital.

He turned and turned the sound down a notch with the remote.

When?

Today. Mrs Green found her on the floor. She was just lying there, on her own, all day

Edward placed his glass on the coffee table.

So? What now?

Catherine looked at him.

I need to go. Ill have to be there in the morning.

Go, Im not stopping you.

Ed, we have to talk. Mums seventy-eight. If its a real stroke, she cant be on her own in that house anymore. We need to work out what to do.

Edward raised the volume a notch, as if to make it clear the subject didnt interest him.

Cathy, weve discussed this. More than once.

Only theoretically. Now its happened.

So whats changed? You know my position. We cant bring her here. We dont have the set-up.

Catherine eased herself onto the sofa.

Edward, weve got four bedrooms.

Four, out of which I wanted to do up two. We talked about this a hundred times. I want a proper study, you wanted a walk-in wardrobe. Where would I put her, in the hallway?

One of the rooms could be for Mum. Renovations can wait.

The renovations cant wait, he replied, perfectly calma tone somehow worse than anger. The builders are booked for March, the deposits paid. You know that.

Ed, she’s a sick woman. My mother.

He looked directly at her, at last.

I do feel for you. But you know what it really means, dont you? An old person in the house, ill, needing nappies, possibly unable to speak. Im not prepared for that. I have every right to say so, don’t I?

She isnt a stranger, shes my mother.

Shes as good as a stranger to me. Weve met four times in ten years. She never wanted to get to know me.

Because you

Lets not play the blame game. Im talking about reality. Ive got work, big projects, I need my peace at home. I wont live in a care home. Its my home as much as yours.

Catherine was silent a long time. Outside, the noises of late-night London drifted up and over the double-glazing: familiar, indifferent.

What about a carer? she said finally. There, in Ambleford. A good carerwe can afford it.

Fine. Hire a carer.

But Ill need to be there. Often.

As much as you like. Go.

Ed, do you hear what Im saying? Ill have to be there half the time. It’s three hours by car.

I heard you. I said, go. No ones stopping you.

The way he said no ones stopping you was so casual, so familiar, that something inside Catherine shifted. Not abruptly, more like the ground slowly moving under your feet when the earth isnt as solid as you thought.

She got up and went back to the bedroom, lying awake until two in the morning, staring at the ceiling.

In the morning, she drove to Ambleford on her own.

The district hospital greeted her with the smell of antiseptic and cheap paint. Jean lay in a six-bed bay by the window. Her right side was slack, her right hand lifeless on the coverlet. She looked at her daughter and didnt speak; only the left corner of her mouth twitched.

Mum. Catherine took her hand, so light and cold it felt like paper. Mum, Im here. Its all right.

Jean tried to say something but the words came out slurred and broken.

Dont, Mum, dont try. Im here. Im not leaving.

The doctor, an older, tired woman, explained efficiently: major ischaemic stroke. Right-side paralysis, speech loss. Recovery possible but uncertainmaybe partial, and months away at best. Minimum six months of proper care, physio, speech therapy, constant watching-over.

She wont cope alone, definitely not, the doctor said. Youre her only daughter?

The only one.

She was given that look doctors have, whove seen a hundred families in crisisno judgement, no sympathy, just the knowledge of how it goes.

Catherine stayed all day. Fed her mum porridge by spoon, held her hand, chatted away about nothing, just so Jean could listen and look with eyes that, if they couldnt reply, at least understood.

That evening, outside in the cold, she phoned Edward.

How is she? he asked.

Bad. Shes paralysed down the right side, cant really speak. She cant be alone.

A pause.

I see.

Ed, I want to tell you something. Im staying here.

How long?

I dont know. However long it takes. I cant leave.

His voice tensed, just a notch.

Cathy, youve got work. Youve got a life here.

Ill manage remotely. Ill sort something. Mum cant be on her own.

You said about a carer.

A carer cant replace her daughter. You know that.

He said nothing.

You realise how long this might be?

I do.

And youre ready to live there? In that house?

Yes.

Another pause, longer.

All right, he said finally, cool but decisive, as if just noting it down. Let me know if you need anything.

She put her phone away and looked at the twilight street of the little market town. Every other lamp was out. An old lady passed by with a tartan shopping bag. There was a whiff of woodsmoke from a nearby garden.

Her mothers house stood at the very end of Orchard Close, down a quiet lane. Timber-framed, weathered with age, the porch sagging, windows small under fading white sills. Catherine opened the front door with the key she always carried, though she used it rarely.

Inside was cold. Her mum hadnt put the heating on for two days. Catherine found logs in the lean-to, managed to get the wood-burner goingnot easily, several false starts. Her hands remembered from childhood, though they moved awkwardly.

She wandered through: a tiny kitchen with cracked tiles, a narrow hallway, two bedroomsher mums, and the little one with the camp bed where Catherine had slept as a girl. Everything was neat but threadbare, worn by the years. On the walls, photographs: herself at eighteen, her late father, black-and-white snaps of ancient relatives. Rural neatness, the sort where every object has a memory, a purpose.

She texted Edward: Im staying here. Dont know how long. Ill come for my things.

He replied after twenty minutes: Understood. As you say.

That was their conversation. That was probably their whole marriage.

The first days blurred into a physically exhausting routine. Catherine went to the hospital at dawn, returned in the evening. She mastered all the tasks: turning her mother to prevent sores, passive arm exercises, spoon-feeding, calm talking, never showing tiredness. She had to help her mum learn to speak again, and it was painful to watch a clever, once-proud former maths teacher struggle to remember the simplest words.

Cathy, her mum managed one morning, clearer than usual, weeks in. Go home.

I am home, Mum.

No. The left hand tried a tired gesture. There. To Edward.

Mum, dont.

Edward She fumbled for words. Edward not pleased?

Catherine straightened the duvet.

Its fine, Mum. Dont think about that.

Her mum stared at her, searchingly, and Catherine had to turn away.

Jean was discharged after three and a half weeks. Discharged home, with pills, a sheet of exercises, a referral to a speech therapist. Catherine hired a taxi, the neighbours son helped get Jean into the house, settled her in bed, got the fire going, made soup.

So began a new life.

Caring for someone bedridden isnt something people talk about. Its turning a body every two hours, emptying commodes, washing sheets, physio on limp limbs every morning, feeding slow spoonfuls, making sure nothing chokes. Tablets by the clock, various at morning and night. The speech therapist visited three times a week, sometimes met stiff resistance; surrender was never in Jeans nature.

Catherine worked remotely as an accountant. Her boss was understanding, offering part-time hours. The money shrank. Edward made occasional transfersnever much, never discussed, just a ping on her bank app. She never asked questions.

They barely spoke.

One drizzly November morning, as Catherine knelt to fix a loose step on the porchher mother soon to attempt walking, needing a steady surfacea man from next door appeared.

Shed glimpsed him before: thickset, broad, in paint-stained overalls, open honest face, about her age.

Here, youre not holding that right, he said. You need to drive the nail in at an anglethat way, itll hold.

She looked up.

Nick. Nick White. From just there, nodding across the lane. Youre Jeans daughter, arent you?

Yes. Catherine.

How is she?

Getting there. Slowly.

He nodded, took the hammer, made short work of the repair she’d fumbled over for half an hour.

If you need anything round the place, just shout, he said, standing. Im always about.

Thank you. I hate to bother you.

No bother at all. He shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Known Jean all my life. She helped my mum once, when I was a lad. Havent forgotten.

He walked off.

Catherine watched him go, thinking how little she dreaded the word ‘inconvenient’ these days. The real discomfort was something else. The real discomfort had been living in that big London flat, knowing her mother was lying, alone, in an old bed.

It was a cold November. The stove smoked badly one day and Catherine panicked, not knowing how to fix it, with her mum coughing in the next room. She knocked on Nicks door at nine in the evening, apologising.

He arrived unruffled, climbed onto the roof with a torch, cleared the blockage, and explained how to prevent it happening. When she tried to pay, he refused so matter-of-factly she didnt push it.

Would you like some tea? she asked.

If its no trouble.

They sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea with packet biscuits. Her mother dozed in the next room. The wind made the branches of the old apple tree scrape the window.

Have you always lived here? Catherine asked.

All my life, barring five years in Birmingham. Factory job. Came back.

Why?

He paused.

Its home, isnt it? Some folk like it away from here. Not me.

She wrapped her hands round the mug. Warm, now; the stove purred.

I always said Id move out of here, to somewhere else. I spent twenty years in London. I thought I was happy. Now Im here, I wonder why I never came back sooner.

Nick didnt try to reassure her, or offer platitudes. He just said, Well, youre here now. Thats what matters.

By December, her mum could sit up unaided. It was a huge step. The therapist, Mrs Fielding, a big-hearted woman in her mid-forties, cheered and managed to get a lopsided smile from Jean, the only part of the face that still worked.

Speech returned in bits and pieces. Finding words frustrated her; sometimes she grew angry. But she could say simple things.

Youve lost weight, she told Catherine one day.

No, Mum.

You have. Jean studied her. Does Edward call?

Now and then.

Will he visit?

I dont know, Mum.

A long silence.

He wont, Jean concluded. Not bitter, just matter-of-fact, the verdict of someone whos seen a lifetime and can gauge the truth.

Edward didnt visit. He called once a week, asked, Hows it going? listened to the briefest of replies, and said, Take care. Once he mentioned the flat renovations. Once, a work dinner at The Ivy. Catherine listened, not angry, just aware that something unspoken was growing between them, something like a distance people confuse for habit but is really a gap between two worlds.

In January, a friend from London visitedSarah, with a cake and a will to help. Sarah was good-hearted, and Catherine was glad to see her. Still, their conversation stuttered.

Cath, dont you think this is enough? Sarah said, perched at the kitchen table. One month, two, all right. But how long will you go on? Itll ruin you.

What do you mean? Abandon her?

Get a real carer. Or a decent care home. There are good ones, private ones.

Mums always been frightened of care homes.

Doesn’t matter now, does it? She cant possibly understand everything youre having to do

She does. Catherine spoke quietly. Her mind is fine. She understands.

Sarah fell silent.

Edward isnt coming down, is he?

No.

So are you both what?

I dont know.

Cath. You cant throw away your marriage for this. Hes your husband, youve got your flat, your life

Catherine looked over at Sarah.

Mum was alone for a whole day. Seventy-eight years old, on the floor on her own.

I know

No. You dont, or you dont want to. Please, dont explain to me about husbands.

Sarah went home that day, slightly miffed. They made up via text, but something had changed, quietly but permanently.

Catherine noticed the older neighbours showed her a different kind of kindness. Not pity, but rural respectquiet, reserved. Mrs Green brought over a jar of pickles, or a cabbage pie, unceremoniously leaving them at the door. Mrs Taylor, sixty-nine, robust, once sat with Jean for two hours so Catherine could fetch medicine. Were about the same age, well have a good chat, she said.

But Catherines peers, those who remembered her as Edwards city wife, eyed her differently. An old school mate at the shop asked after Edward, smirking, fishing for details. There was a hint of pleasure in her prying, something mean and small.

Were getting by, Catherine replied, giving away nothing.

Nick kept on helping. Mended the fence flattened by snow, delivered logs, fixed things before she even realised they were broken. One harsh February, when Catherine caught a nasty cold, Nick brought food, stoked the fire, even tended to her mum without fuss, like it was nothing special.

Nick, I cant thank you enough, Catherine said when she was well again.

Dont mention it. Were neighbours.

Neighbours can be different.

He nodded. Aye, they can.

They fell quiet. Jean napped. Outside was grey February.

Do you have family? Catherine asked.

Used to. Wife passed eight years back. Daughter in Manchester. Calls now and then. He said it without complaint. On my own now. Im used to it.

Dont you get lonely?

He gazed out the window.

Sometimes. But when youve always something to do, its a rare thing, being lonely.

She thought of Edward, in the big new flat with the new leather sofa, business channel on. Was he ever lonely?

She phoned him that evening.

Ed, we need to talk.

Everything all right?

Yes. We just havent actually spoken for ages.

A pause.

All right, say what you want to say.

How are you?

Fine. Renovations done soon. Work going well. Silence. When are you coming back?

Ed, Im I dont think I am.

A long pause.

At all?

At all.

He didnt shout. He just asked:

Because of your mother? Or because of me?

Catherine took three seconds to consider.

Its probably for myself, really.

He was silent, just breathing down the line.

Right, he said finally. Do you want a divorce?

Yes.

Fine. Lets get a divorce then.

And that lets get a divorce, said in precisely the same tone as hed order new flooring, made everything plain.

In spring, her mum started to walk again. First tentatively, with a zimmer frame, then across the kitchen, then to the front step. Progress was slow, punishing, often painful. Sometimes Jean broke down, rare for her stiff-upper-lip temperament, but she kept going.

The therapist, Mrs Fielding, was genuinely pleased with her.

Shes motivated, she told Catherine. Its half the battle, having someone you want to get better for.

Catherine wasnt sure if it was her, or just Jeans nature. But it was good to hear.

One warm May evening, Catherine and Nick sat on the bench outside the gate. Jean sorted herself for bed now, and Catherine had an hours respite before her final check.

Not thinking of leaving, then? Nick asked.

No, she replied, solid, after a moments thought. I considered it, but I just dont want to. Funny, isnt it? Spent twenty years longing for London, for something different. Now Im here and I want to stay.

Not funny, said Nick. Sometimes it just takes us a while to get where were supposed to be.

Its not always easy here. Sometimes its bloody hard.

Easys not always right, he said, looking up at the pale sunset over the rooftops. Right just means right.

Catherine glanced at him. Ordinary, decent man: calloused hands, crows feet, few words but true.

Nick, she said. You know Edward and I are divorcing?

Heard. Word gets about.

Do you think badly of me?

He turned to look at her.

For what?

For leaving For breaking up the marriage.

He considered. Marriage is being together, isnt it? Good times and bad. Otherwise, just two people sharing a roof.

She left it at that. There was nothing more to say.

The divorce, handled by a solicitor, was smooth. Edward, ever businesslike, kept the flat, offered her a settlement. She accepted; she needed the money to fix up her mums houserotten floorboards, leaking roof, ancient wiring.

That summer, Nick helped with repairs, bringing mates around; they sorted the floors and roof in three weekends, only charging for the cost of materials.

Why? asked Catherine.

Because were neighbours.

Theres more to it, though.

He paused, then nodded. Aye. There is.

Jean watched from the porch, newly mobile with her walking stick. Her face never quite went back to normal, but she could speak well enough, and her eyes were lively, full of spirit.

One day, she told Catherine, Hes a good man.

Yes, Mum.

You can see that?

I can.

Jean nodded and let the matter rest.

Edward rang in Julythe first time in two months, since the decree absolute.

How are you all? he asked, sounding different, more human somehow.

Were good. Mums getting around, the house is fixed up.

Glad to hear. I Ive been thinking, maybe I didnt behave too well. Back in autumn.

Catherine didnt say, Its all right, or, No harm done. That wouldnt have been true.

Maybe, she said.

Youre not angry?

No. Not anymore.

Well, good Are you happy there?

She looked out of the window. Her mum sat on the garden bench Nick had made, book in hand, watching the apples fatten on the tree. The sparrows squabbled on the fence.

Im not sure if happys the word, Catherine said. But I feel right here.

I understand, said Edward. And by the way he said it, she knew he meant it.

They said their goodbyes.

Catherine took the tray through to the kitchen. The kettle was old, handle chipped, she always meant to buy a new one and never quite did. Her mums geranium glowed on the window sill. Summer was outside, and the house smelled of mown grass and sun-warmed wood.

At half five, Nick knocked.

Evening, Jean. Ive brought some of the first raspberries from the garden.

Thank you, Nick. Come in, her mother replied.

Catherine heard their voices, soft murmurings, and paused for a moment, cups in hand. Because there was something utterly simple and deeply precious in this kitchen, in these voices, in the smell of tea and summer. Somewhere in London there was a man, on a perfect sofa, having chosen the perfect flat and the wrong life.

Shed chosen the right one.

Or maybe she was still choosing, a little bit every day.

She brought in the mugs.

Stay for tea, Nick.

Love to, he said.

Her mother smiled with half her mouth, but truly.

Sit down, both of you, Jean said.

And so they did.

The sun slipped down beyond the rooftops, throwing long shadows over the apple tree, sparrows chattered, and the bowl of raspberries breathed summer across the table.

There was nothing else that needed saying.